


Fish & Chips

by Perfectoffering



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:22:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfectoffering/pseuds/Perfectoffering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're feeling sad, so you reach out to a consulting detective...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fish & Chips

**Author's Note:**

> request from a friend :) I've never written reader insert before so feedback is welcome!

With Sherlock, things are never ordinary. It was a given, something you had known when John introduced you. But even after all these months, all the times he'd texted you asking for your help with one crazy experiment or another, seeing his “SH” signature at the end of messages still caught you by surprise. Tonight you realized, thumb hovering over the send button, would be the first time you had texted him first.

_Goddammit, I'm not sixteen years old. Why the hell does it matter who texts first?_

The little voice that plagues you reminds you how silly it is. That you're worrying about it, that you're texting him at all. After all, what kind of idiot reaches out to Sherlock Holmes when they're feeling down? Even if he had offered his support, even told you to let him know when you were feeling... under the weather. That was his phrase; the euphemism was so polite and so very  _not_ Sherlock it had almost made you laugh. He was the only one who noticed the way your hands shook slightly and the way your smile dropped off your face when no one was looking. Of course he'd seen it, he sees everything, the surprise had been that he cared. He explained, in halting, awkward sentences, that he understood how lonely it was to be consumed by a sickness no one could see. Tears itched behind your eyes at the memory of his kindness. It'd been a long time since anyone seemed to care.

Your phone screen begins to dim from inactivity, and you tap to wake it up. You read the short message again:

“Hey, are you busy this evening? I could use some company.”

It's pretty innocent, right? Not too needy? God, you don't want to seem needy to Sherlock fucking Holmes, the emotional island. You slam your thumb down on the send button to silence the anxious thoughts.

_Sending... Sending... Sent._

You toss your phone down on the couch beside you and pace the room. You've hardly taken five steps before your phone vibrates.

“Returning to Baker st shortly.

Fish and chips?

SH”

You reply immediately.

“See you in half an hour? And yes please.”

Before you've slipped on your boots, Sherlock's affirming text comes in. It's a cool evening and you've got some time, so you decide to make your way to Baker street on foot. The walk is pleasant, mostly through small roads lined with red brick buildings and simple storefronts. The streets of London are quiet, in the breath between the hum drum of daily life and the cover of night time. The evening air carries the scents of the city: the acid smell of fresh tarmac from the roadworks, the greasy perfume of a pub kitchen, and stale exhaust from the cars rushing by on a busy street a few blocks away. Lost in your thoughts you arrive in front of 221B before you know it.

You raise your hand to the knocker, slightly crooked. You knock twice, but there is no sound from inside the apartment and you wonder if you're early. You count to ten slowly and then knock again. Still no answer. He must not be back yet, so you step back from the door, looking for a place to sit and wait.

“Am I late?” A deep voice says from behind you.

Startled you turn around quickly to see Sherlock behind you, carrying two take away packages. The corner of his mouth lifts up in a smile at your surprised face.

“No, not at all... I was probably early, really...” You say, stumbling slightly over your words.

He smiles again and pulls open the door, ushering you inside.

“No matter. Let's eat before it goes cold.” He says.

Being Sherlock, he only eats a few chips before wandering over to his latest experiment. The details of the science are a little fuzzy to you, but it's comforting to listen to his voice. After transferring various concoctions between petri dishes, Sherlock sits down on the couch across from you. He continues to pick absentmindedly at the platter in front of him, but you feel every sideways glance.

“What's troubling you tonight?” He asks after a few minutes of silence.

“Nothing, really, I guess.” You say, staring down at your hands. “I don't know.”

He makes no secret of looking at you now and the intensity of his gaze makes you squirm.

“Could you not stare like that?” You mutter.

“Sorry, sorry.” Sherlock glances away.

Sherlock rises and begins to wander around the room.

“I'm not much good at this. You know that of course, and you came anyway. I wish I knew what to say, something that would make you feel better, but there's not much, is there?” He says.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak without crying. He plops down next to you on the couch and places a hand delicately on your knee.

“I suppose, the only thing I can say is that I... I truly appreciate you. I know that's not much.” He says.

The tears overwhelm you then, and it's a relief to have them out. You lean into his chest, and he wraps a stiff arm around your shoulders.

“There, there.” He says.

The absurdity of the situation makes you giggle through your tears. When you look up, he's watching you.

“What's funny? Did I say something wrong?” He asks, confusion creasing his brows.

“No, no. It's just strange.” You say, giggling again. “You're not the most comforting person on the planet.”

He loosens his arm from your shoulders and purses his lips in feigned offence.

“I shouldn't have said that.” You say. “I mean, you're not usually, but tonight you've made me feel a lot better. Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you.”

This time you wrap your arms around him. He's stiff under your embrace for a second, before softening and holding you gently. As you lie against each other, your limbs shift gradually, until you're totally entangled. Slowly, your breathing syncs with his. For the first time in a long while, you don't feel sad or empty. Just warm.


End file.
